Easter and the Agnostic

 

The news is pitched from a passing car, mercifully
short of the lilies. Somebody's dragged back
the time again -- three days traveling and now
I arrive to the light on this silent block,
cars in their driveways like stones
in throats. When I was in Sunday school,

racing to the passage about one hair black
or white, you must have been about six, wooden
pin on icebox dough, bringing water
to the aloe in the window box. We would not meet
for forty years, by then

I was a widower twice, my children rising
from their beds, money for their mid-day meal,
the Audi to save them the trip up the hill.
Did I carry your voice? I have this theory
about courage and age. My right eye never
gets it right. But I say to you

lust is enough, we donít need the rest of it
for regret. The clock crows and we wake
in innocence -- you, curled like a serpent,
my shadowed stagger on white walls. Did you dream
of the judges? Who then can be saved?

It might snow before you roll back
the door. It does that here. Wrap me
in sheets and whisper the older tale,
their days in the wilderness, the way
they found their way out
on the strength of love's covenant.